


Come All Ye Faithful

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:41:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a Christmas story that isn't really about Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come All Ye Faithful

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while. I was starting to wonder if I'd ever write again. Fortunately, I got my Christmas and birthday present/s early--in the form of a (hopefully) lifted writer's block! I owe big thanks to a lot of friends who supported me and encouraged me over the last year (besides listening to me whine!) when I couldn't make the words come out. Special thanks to Carla, Jenn and Linda for beta-ing this for me. As always, this is for my best gal--you know who you are.

## Come All Ye Faithful

by Kim Gasper

Author's webpage: <http://www.mediafans.org/kim>

Author's disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

Come All Ye Faithful  
by Kim Gasper  
(c) December 2000 

"You owe me big time for this, Sandburg." I had my pants open, trying to stuff the padding for the Santa suit into a more comfortable position. I looked into the mirror and met Sandburg's eyes, shaking my head when he snorted. 

"I paid that debt this morning, man. If you've forgotten already, we need to check you into the nearest old-age home." He cupped his crotch for a minute, then winked at me. "I could always do a refresher, I suppose, just to be sure--" 

Half afraid he'd actually consider it here in the locker room I shook my head again, muttering at him, "...later. I'll collect on your debt after the party." 

His grin got wider. "If it's any consolation, Jim, consider this: you could have gotten the part of Santa's elf." 

He had a point. I couldn't wait to see how Simon looked in _his_ costume; I only hoped that Myers from IA got a good picture of him. If nothing else, it would be worth the roar when it was posted on the bulletin board. The idea of my boss, with his several inches on me, dressed as an elf--. Yes. It was a good visual. And I was damned glad I was at least wearing the jolly man's suit. I turned back to the mirror to finish my adjusting. 

"I'm still not sure how you talked me into this. I don't know jack about talking to kids like this." 

"What's so hard about it? All you gotta do is listen when they tell you what they want, and make the appropriate noises." 

"But what's the point in that? They tell me, and they think they're gonna get the goods-- " Sandburg was grinning again, shaking his head, and I swung around to look him straight in the eyes. "What?" 

"We already know what the kids want, man. The liaison contact got lists from the parents ahead of time, and the team that was in charge of buying has it covered." 

"And if the kids change their minds?" 

Sandburg shrugged. "The 'list' they filled out was done in the guise of a letter to Santa, so I dunno. I guess you could always start the conversation with something like, 'I got your letter, but why don't you tell me now what was on it', or something like that." 

"They getting all their presents at the party tonight?" Padding as settled as I could get it, I turned my attentions to the fake beard and mustache on the table. "You wanna help me with this, Einstein? Since it was all your idea?" 

"Sure." His grin was totally unrepentant, and I still couldn't figure out why I tried. Part of Sandburg's charm was that unrepentant cheerfulness. "I think they're getting some of the gifts tonight, and the rest will be sent home with their folks for Christmas morning, but I don't know for sure. Lira didn't say." 

Lira Davidson was Sandburg's partner during his training at the academy, and currently one of the members of the contact team. While I knew she and Sandburg were just friends, and that he and I were much more than just friends, it didn't stop me from having the occasional twinge of jealousy. He'd never given me cause to think they were more than friends, and I wasn't going to start acting like a knuckle-dragging, single-syllable grunting caveman because he mentioned a woman's name once in a while...but it still gave me that damned twinge. I shifted uncomfortably and tried to joke away a little of the tension. 

"Y'know, it's a good thing for you I'm not the overly-jealous sort." I ignored his snort and turned my head so he could put more of the theatrical glue on my face. "If that were the case, I might have to tie you down and beat you into submission." 

That earned me a full-fledged laugh. "You _wish_ , man." His fingers, tracing over my jaw, gave me shivers in pleasant places. "Anyway, that's more your bag than mine, isn't it?" 

My turn to laugh. "In your dreams, Sandburg. In your dreams." I shifted again so he could lay the fake beard against my skin, smoothing it onto the sticky glue. We'd tested this once, yesterday, to be sure I wasn't going to have any funky reactions from strange chemicals applied to hypersensitive skin. I lasted about four hours before I had to wash the stuff off; it started to tingle, then burn, after that long. I'd only be in costume probably about two hours tonight, so we were fine, time-wise. 

His eyes twinkled at me, pupils catching the colored lights someone had put over the doorway. "You make a helluva sexy Santa, Jim." 

I grinned and leered at him. "Maybe later you can tell Santa if you've been a good boy." 

"Bein' bad's more fun, Santa." He finished smoothing the fake beard, fingers lingering on my jaw briefly, before he moved them. 

"Bad gets you coal in your stocking, remember?" 

"Or a switch." His eyes gleamed again and I laughed. 

"You got a thing for pain I should know about, Sandburg?" He simply smirked and went to stow the glue and my real clothes in my locker. 

Dressing done, all I had to do was wait for my cue. I could hear the sounds of the party beginning, the high, excited children's voices overlaid with the deeper, quieter tones of adults, and the soft hum of Christmas music from the stereo. 

Each year the police department picked twenty disadvantaged families from the community and sponsored them for the holiday season. Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas dinner, toys for the children, and extras in the form of needed things like coats, new shoes, and clothing basics. It was a massive undertaking and we generally started fundraising for it in the early part of the next year. My shoulders ached now, remembering all the pots of chili I'd stirred and all the different baseball games I'd played this year to that benefit. 

"Santa can't possibly need a rub-down yet; he hasn't done a thing." I could hear the leer in Sandburg's voice, suggesting just exactly what he thought needed rubbing down. 

"Santa's remembering all the baseball games, and chants of 'hit it harder, Ellison'." 

"Ahh, yeah." Sandburg hooked a chair with his foot and dragged it over, then pushed me into it. "Rest. Relax. After the party, we'll go home and see about a little merry-making of our own." 

"Promises, promises." I sat, glad to take a load off, if just for a few minutes. It'd been a long, busy week, and I'd hoped to get a chance to stay at home this weekend and just relax. At least, that'd been the plan until my thoughtful partner volunteered _me_ when the other Santa had come down with a bad case of the flu. "Are you armed?" 

Face completely serious for a change, Sandburg hooked another chair over, turning first to flip up the tail of his plaid flannel shirt up. "You know it, man." 

The gun gleamed darkly in the light, reminding me of just how much had changed with my partner over the years. When we first met, he'd been adamant about not carrying a gun, preferring to rely on other means and methods of self-defense and preservation. Now he packed on a routine basis. He still didn't care for firearms, but admitted their part in maintaining an equilibrium of sorts. I'd watched him though, during busts and takedowns; he still used those other means whenever possible. 

It was good to know that no matter how much things might appear to change, underneath, they stayed as unchanged as possible. 

I heard the soft jingle of sleigh bells begin and stood up. Right on cue the door to the locker room opened and my 'elf' stepped inside. His outfit was, well...unique, and I was glad all over again I'd gotten the red and white. He wore a hunter green shirt and short pants, white hose, and narrow green shoes with a long, stiff curl of material at the end, and a softly tingling bell on each curl. On top of his head was a red-green-and-white stocking cap, the bands of color alternating in stripes. I was half-surprised that he didn't have Spock-type ear tips on, but figured it might have something to do with the man wearing the costume and not the costume itself. He stepped into full view, his dark face drawn in a scowl that deepened when Sandburg hummed a few bars of 'We Wish You A Merry Christmas'. 

"Yo, Simon. You're gonna scare the kiddies with that face." Trust Sandburg to scrap subtlety. 

Simon threw my partner a glare that should have peeled the paint from the walls. "Fuck you, Sandburg--unless you want to don the pointed, jingly shoes and little green costume for a while?" 

"I don't think it would fit me, Sir." I couldn't see his face, but I could hear the smirk in his voice. And he was right; the department had had to make a costume just for Simon; the other one could only be altered just so much, and it was still too small. 

"You wanna walk a beat, Sandburg? One more word, and its as good as done." I know I was the only one who heard the soft snort that bubbled out before Sandburg wisely shut his mouth. 

"Are they ready for us, Sir?" Best to get out there and get it over with. At least I didn't look as silly as Simon did. 

"Yeah." His voice was more growl than not, and I bit my lip to keep from grinning myself. Sandburg flashed me a thumbs up and disappeared out the other door that lead to the gym, where the party was. Simon and I would follow in a minute or two. 

* * *

The gym was packed, and the noise and light created a painful barrage to heightened senses. I winced as I did my best to tone down sight and sound, then resolved to just deal with it. A couple of hours, then Sandburg and I could go back to the loft, settle on the couch in the dark to watch 'Lethal Weapon' and play kissy-face. 

My elf and I entered the gym to a rousing cheer accompanied by the stereo blaring "Here Comes Santa Claus". I watched Simon rearrange his expression from glum and pissy to happy and cheerful; he might not like dressing as an elf, but my boss was a good guy. He wanted the kids to have a good Christmas--and he knew that a scowling elf wouldn't add to the overall atmosphere. 

We were led--swept along is more like it--to the chair and dais that Santa was to be set up on. As I was encouraged to take my seat, amidst a lot of "Ho-ho-ho-ing", I noticed Sandburg perching himself close by, leaning casually against the wall just behind and to the left of me. Pretty much out of sight, but close enough that I could hear him muttering under his breath. 

"Simon's kinda sexy in those green tights--" 

I choked myself holding back the peal of laughter that wanted out; jolliness was encouraged, but the howling I wanted to do probably wouldn't go over well. I was going to kill Sandburg when we were alone again. 

My partner's purpose in leaning there against the wall was to give me some verbal cues to help with the kids. Names, favorite toy, things of that sort. Sandburg's memory was phenomenal, and combined with a cheat-sheet tucked away somewhere, he could feed me the cues very quietly, very easily. 

Howard from Criminal Investigations and Rafe from my own unit staggered up to the dais with a huge box of wrapped toys; Eileen Travis from Admin followed behind with a large bag of what was probably stuffed animals, if the bear peeking out was any indication. Santa's helpers took their places behind and to the side of me and Simon, and the lineup began. The first kid, a little girl with long, blond braids and eyes too big for her face hesitated at the step up to my chair. I smiled at her, and Simon knelt down, hand extended. 

"C'mon, sweetheart. Santa's all ready to talk to you." She held her hand out slowly, letting him help her up the step, then onto my lap. She was light as a feather, her bones close under her skin under the patched denim jumper she was wearing. I ho-ho'd for her, then touched her head. 

"What's your name?" She peered at me, eyes wide and a little frightened. Up close they weren't the blue I'd originally thought, but more of a blue-grey. When she got old enough to understand better, she'd have boys eating out of her hand. Her voice was very soft, but no match for Santa's hearing. 

"Sonya. Sonya Michaels." 

"Why don't you tell me what you'd like for Christmas, Sonya? I got your letter, but I'd like to hear you tell me." 

She gave me another long, assessing look, then leaned in close, her whisper barely enough for my hearing to compensate for. 

"I want...a Barbie doll...and something pretty to dress her up with." She paused then leaned closer, hugging my arm tight. "An' something warm...a new nightgown...to wear to bed..." 

* * *

Joey Roberts wanted rollerblades like the older kids at school; Martha Dickerson wanted her daddy to come home to live with them, and Raphael Mendoza wanted his mother and father to quit fighting all the time. Teresa Williams wanted toys for her baby sister and a baseball glove so she could join the softball team in the spring. Randy Jessup wanted a new pair of jeans and some name brand sneakers I'd never heard of. Terry Michaels, Sonya's little brother, could barely talk, but he seemed happy to sit and babble, as long as he could play with my beard. 

I lost track of all the children I talked to; lost track of all the toys and other things they asked for. Many of them didn't request toys or items for themselves, they asked for things for other siblings or for their parents. One memorable little boy asked if I could find his daddy a good job because mommy was sick and couldn't work, and daddy had lost the job he had. I made a mental note to talk to Simon about that one afterward; we'd done so much for these families, surely a little job-hunting assistance wouldn't be out of the question, would it? 

Through most of it Sandburg held his perch against the wall, disappearing occasionally to get me a drink of something cold, or for a myriad of other small, quick errands for the other helpers. He whispered cues when I hesitated or got stuck, and other times just leaned there against the wall, whistling in tune with the music still buzzing through the gym. I never understood how he could remain so cheerful, but when I looked over once, into his eyes, I knew it was a front so the kids wouldn't see how sad all this was making him. 

To have a small child ask for a job for his daddy was a pretty damn depressing thing, when it came right down to it. 

Sandburg and I had a small tree up, and I knew there were a couple of gifts under it from some people from Rainier he'd kept in touch with. I had a couple things tucked away to put out tomorrow, on Christmas Eve, and from the secretive looks he'd given me lately I figured he was doing the same. But we were keeping Christmas small by choice. Neither of us were particularly religious, nor into lavish celebrations. These families should have more, though. 

* * *

Any time I watch an action show on television, I'm always astounded by how well Hollywood managed to grasp the "slow-mo" moments. Because in times of incredible duress, with adrenaline pumping through your system by the gallon, life truly seems to slow down into an instant replay sort of thing. 

Punch, cookies, a table full of bite-sized sandwiches and veggies cut into small squares and circles. Christmas music blaring cheerfully, nearly drowned out by the sound of dozens of adult voices and children shrieking happily. 

The sound of a gun cocking, of a safety being released. 

Slow-mo time. 

"He has a gun! A gun!" Somewhere in the room a woman screamed, then another, then several children joined in, their shouts more playful than scared. A gun, sure. Surrounded by policemen, they'd expect there to be guns. Inner-city kids saw as much gunfire as some of the cops on the force saw. Sounds of 'bang, bang, you're dead' rose up. I swiveled in my chair, trying to figure out where the gun was. Who had it? How'd it get past the security check? 

"There, Jim. The man with brown hair and glasses, by the far door." Blair's voice, steady in my ear. I shot a startled look at him; when had he moved so close? 

"He's too far away." I shifted forward, tensing when the man moved at the same time. He raised the gun and fired toward the ceiling, blowing one of the large, fluorescent lights. I cringed when glass and plastic rained down on the crowd of people. 

"What're you all celebrating for? Dontcha know how miserable life is right now?" He staggered once, and I wondered if he were drunk, or maybe wounded himself. From off to my side, opposite where Blair was, a small boy moved forward. William Fowler. The little boy who wanted a job for his daddy for Christmas. 

"Daddy?" 

"Get...back, William." The man's voice was hoarse, his eyes scared. I shifted again and found a gun pointing right at me. "Back. Don't move." 

"Holding us at gunpoint isn't going to help you, Mr. Fowler." Blair stepped forward a few inches, speaking before I had a chance. "Let us help you. Please." 

"You can't help me." He waved the gun once more. Behind him the door eased open; I didn't focus on the cops coming through slowly. I kept my gaze on Fowler, knowing Blair was doing the same. Hell, we were all watching him. From the corner of my eye I saw Simon catch William around the waist and pull him quickly behind the dais; at least if his father started firing, he would be out of the line of fire. 

"Let us try." I shifted forward, one step, and the gun rose instantly, keeping in line with my chest. Great. Trust him to be a good shot, even drunk. "I know things are rough right now, Mr. Fowler--" 

"You don't know squat, and don't try pretending you do!" His voice cracked and his hand shook, and the gun wavered for a moment as he waved it around before returning it to point at my chest. I could feel a trickle of sweat inch its way maddeningly down my neck, then my back. How many kids were in this room? How many civilians? It made my head hurt to contemplate it. 

"Okay. You're right. What can we do to help you?" I gestured, mainly to show him I was unarmed. I was wishing for a .45 to pull from my belt. 

"Nothing." That one word held so much despair, so much hopelessness. He was wrong; I'd felt that way myself, when my senses kicked in and I didn't have a clue what to do about them. I took a step forward, freezing when he pulled the trigger back. Beside me, Blair practically vibrated with tension. Behind me, I could hear William crying. I could hear others crying, too. The cops inside the door behind Fowler froze, hands on their weapons. Fowler looked me in the eye and said softly, "...nothing." 

He moved his hand, pointed the gun at his temple. 

Slow-mo time again. I heard someone shout, heard someone else scream. I know I lunged forward, but I felt like I was coated in honey; I couldn't move fast enough. Blair lunged in tandem, then he was in front of me, the gun was moving, and he was jerking backwards, a shocked expression on his face at the same time the gunshot echoed in the large room. 

"Blair!" My shout was lost as gunfire echoed again and I watched in horror as Fowler's body crumpled, the expression on his face going from despair to nothingness in the space of a few seconds. All the time it took for a bullet to blow his brains out. 

Merry Christmas, everyone. 

My focus on the world narrowed down to Blair, kneeling on the floor, bent in on himself, one arm clutching his body protectively. There was no blossoming bloodstain on the back of his shirt; if a bullet went in, it was still in there. I touched his shoulder, shifted him to pull his arm back. It came away crimson, as did my hand when I touched him. Chest. Heart. My heart was in my throat as I eased him backward, onto the floor. Lira and Rafe hovered beside me; Henri was there in an instant with some towels. Sandburg was wearing layers, as always. The flannel moved easily. I ripped the soft t-shirt up the center, spreading the material open, suppressing a shudder at the scarlet-rimmed hole just to the right of the center of his chest. I could still smell the gunpowder, could see the ragged edges of the wound, slightly dark with powder-burns. Shit. I laid two towels gently over his chest, pressing down to try and stem the flow of blood. Just beyond us several others were laying out Fowler, with Simon still holding William back. I wondered briefly where William's mother was, then turned my attention back to Sandburg, pale and quiet on the floor in front of me. 

"Don't you die," I warned, blinking fast. Big tough cops don't cry, right? 

"Nah," he said softly, eyes dull with pain. "You know I'm tougher than that." 

I flashed on all the times in the past he'd cheated death, and hoped so. Where the fuck was the ambulance? We were in the police station, for God's sake. You'd think it wouldn't take so long. 911 dispatch was _here_. Something white waved in front of me, and I looked up. 

"More towels, Jim." Lira. Her voice was tight, her eyes shiny. The ones on Sandburg's chest were turning a wet red. Henri and I peeled the top two off and dropped them to the side, settling the new ones on and pressing down again. 

Sandburg was even paler, his lips a funny color. I slapped his face lightly and his eyes opened to look at me. "Stay with me, Chief. No wandering." I could hear the catch in my voice; wondered if he could. 

"No...wandering." He nodded slowly, then closed his eyes again. Internal bleeding as well, I was sure. A bullet could do a helluva lot of damage inside, where we would never see it. Dammit to hell, where were they? I looked around, then waved frantically at the figures in blue coming through the door. EMTs, _finally_. He coughed, then choked once, then reached for my hand. "Jim--" 

"You said you weren't gonna die, Sandburg. I'm holding you to that." My hand was shaking; I hoped he couldn't feel it. Megan's voice cut through the white noise surrounding me; I could hear her directing the EMTs to us. I shifted around, trying to move out of the way and still maintain contact. 

"Won't--" He choked again, and I had a vision of his chest filling with blood, of him drowning inside himself. Shit, shit, shit. 

Someone was asking me a question. I tried to focus, they wanted information. "Single gunshot to the chest," I heard myself telling the first paramedic. "No visible exit wound." Somewhere in the distance I could hear a very small voice wailing for his mommy, for his daddy, but it didn't connect. Nothing outside the pale face I was staring down at, dark circles even now forming under his eyes, slashing like wounds themselves. 

"Name? Age? Is he on any medications? Any allergies?" 

"Blair Sandburg. He's thirty-six, no and no." I stared at Sandburg, willing his eyes to open. Two hours ago he'd been joking and laughing, harassing me about sex. As much as the chatter bugged me sometimes, it was far preferable to this. 

"Any medical conditions we should know about?" 

Megan bumped my hip, and I started. "Um, no." Aside from being technically dead once. But it wasn't a condition affecting him now, years later. I squeezed his hand once, got a tiny increase in pressure in return. 

"Pulse weak and thready," the woman--Howe--muttered, while her partner wrapped a pressure cuff around Sandburg's arm. "Breathing labored." 

"BP's ninety over sixty and falling." His nametag read Swan. He didn't look old enough to drink, much less be an EMT, but he seemed to know what he was doing. 

Howe was hooking an IV up to Sandburg's arm while Swan called in to the hospital. I zoned for a minute on the crackling noises coming from the mike, then came back to myself when Sandburg squeezed my hand. His eyes were closed; how'd he know? I shook my head. He always knew. 

The medics worked quickly, efficiently, getting him onto the stretcher and strapped down for transport. Henri and I helped lift while the others looked on. Megan had tears in her eyes; Rafe was pale under his tan. One of our own, taken down in what should have been a safe place. For the split second it took for the thought to form, I was glad Fowler was dead. I regretted it an instant later, but there was still a very primal part of me that wanted retribution--and was glad to accept what was offered. Swan's voice cut through my thoughts. "Cascade General, ready for transport." 

"This is not happening, Sandburg." I squeezed his hand. "You survive how long in the field, then die from a gunshot in the headquarters building? I don't think so." I squeezed again; he didn't return it this time. All I got was another choking noise, and the sick, wet sound of him trying to breathe. "Don't. Die." 

"His breathing is irregular." They stopped. Howe shifted Sandburg's head, straightening him out, exposing his throat. I could see it working, as he struggled for air. "Let's get him to the rig--I'll bag him on the way." They resumed moving, people shifting out of the way. 

"Let me ride with you." I was still holding Sandburg's hand, and there was still pressure. No squeezing back, but he still had me. 

Hell, he would always have me. 

"No way, Detective." Swan looked at me as he eased the stretcher through the door. I could see the shadows of emergency lights flickering in a dizzying pattern against the walls. "You follow." 

"I want to ride." 

"No, Jim." Megan's voice right behind me, her hand on my arm. "I'll drive you. Or Rafe. Or Henri. We care about Sandy, too." 

"But--" 

"Cascade General, Detective. We'll be there in five minutes or less." The door to the ambulance was open. I let go of Sandburg's hand, the coolness of his touch still lingering, spreading over my skin. He was so pale. 

"We'll be there." Rafe's voice. God, they were all here, right here. Of course they were. Sandburg was their friend, as well. Years now, that we'd all worked together. It was easy to forget, sometimes. 

It was harder to accept that it could all end at any time--like right now. I shivered again, cold that had nothing to do with the wind. The ambulance was already pulling out. I hadn't said goodbye--oversight? Foresight? I hadn't said I loved him, either. 

"Let's go." I snarled the words, the ache in my chest making it hard to breathe. 

Merry fucking Christmas. 

* * *

I hate the scents and sounds of hospitals. Even without heightened senses, I would hate them; now, they're a million times worse. Antiseptic and ammonia which make my nose sting and my eyes water, the sounds of people crying or coughing, or dying, the bright lights which strip away all illusion of humanity, bathing each person with harsh glares and shadow. 

We were almost ten minutes behind the ambulance and my partner. I was all for running for whoever's car was closest to the door, until Megan pointed out I still had the Santa suit and beard on. I stripped out of everything but the pants, boots and a t-shirt, and washed the glue off best I could. Someone could bring me clothes later, or I could go home and change. For now, I had to get to the hospital. 

Rafe parked right outside the entrance to the ER, letting me and Megan run in. I couldn't hear Sandburg anywhere; couldn't smell him over the stronger, harsher scents surrounding me. I grabbed the first person I saw. "Blair Sandburg--he was brought in by ambulance about ten minutes ago." 

"He the gunshot to the chest?" 

I winced. "Yeah." 

"There." She pointed to the closed door just to the right of us and I turned automatically. "You can't go in there, Sir!" 

"I have to be there." I took a step and she grabbed my arm. 

"Are you a relative?" 

"I'm his partner. He was shot on-duty." I wanted to shake her hand off and _go_. I couldn't see Sandburg; he was surrounded by bodies and machinery. 

"Oh." She looked up at me. "You can't go in the room--you'll have to wait outside. The trauma team is in there." 

I wanted to say something...anything. I wanted to shake her and tell her who Sandburg is--much, much more than just my work partner--and make her tell me he'd be okay. I could smell blood, even over the antiseptic, and wondered if it was all his, or just a scent in the hospital. I could hear the sounds of dozens of voices, and the whine and pinging of mechanical equipment. Megan tugged on my arm. 

"C'mon, Jim. We'll wait by the door. A doctor can tell us what's going on." 

I nodded and let go of the woman's arm. Her eyes were warm and sympathetic, her smile gentle. "Wait by the door. Someone will let you know as soon as they're able." 

Yeah, and I believed in Santa Claus, too. 

I let Megan lead me down the hallway, maybe a dozen steps, to the door of the room Sandburg was in. A glimpse of him through the glass made my heart pound, adrenaline rushing through my system. They'd covered his lower body with a sheet of some sort, but he was bare from the waist up. Tubes and lines snaked from his mouth, his arms, and there was still the dark crimson of blood trailing across his chest in wavy, vivid lines. His eyes were closed, dark lashes and lank curls emphasizing how pale he was. No smile or smirk or twinkle animating his face; nothing to indicate anyone was home. 

"He looks--" 

I glared at Megan, and she gave my arm a squeeze of apology. I doubt she realized she'd spoken aloud. "He's gonna make it. I know he will. He's strong. He has a strong will to live." 

"Sandy's a strong guy, Jim, but--" 

I was too old for this. I loved the job, but damn. Compromise. Somewhere there had to be compromise. Of course, who'd have thought some guy would come wandering into headquarters, packing, suicidal and looking for a fight? Who'd have thought Sandburg would play hero? Voices, agitation peeking through the outer layer of calm, cut through my thoughts. 

"BP bottoming out! I don't have a pulse." 

"He's crashing--get a cart in here!" 

"Shit--" I pressed myself forward, grabbing the molding on the doorframe, trying to see better, hear better, trying to send Sandburg some of my strength. 

"Jim--ow!" I let go of Megan's hand, looking at the red marks where I'd squeezed too hard. "What's happening?" 

"They're losing him," I whispered hoarsely. "He's--" 

"Get those paddles over here!" 

"What's going on?" Henri's voice was right behind me. Megan turned, I think, toward him. I gripped the doorframe harder. 

Dammit, I wanted to _see_. "Clear!" 

It was like a tidal wave moving everything aside for a moment. The waters parted, and I could see him, lying there so still, droplets of blood clinging to pale skin, red-brown burn marks spreading around the area where they'd defibbed him. 

"Nothing! Hit him again." 

"Breathe, Jim. You're not going to help anyone if you pass out." I felt warmth on the other side of me, and the whisper-soft scent of Rafe's new cologne. He'd picked it out specifically for the new girl from records he was dating, and Sandburg teased him mercilessly about it any chance he got. 

I hoped he got another chance. 

"Clear!" Sandburg's body jumped again, and someone yelled, "I have a pulse!" 

"He's back. We've got him again." 

"Get him ready to move; they have an OR ready for him." 

I slumped against the door, wishing I could slip right through the metal and wood and glass, until I was on the other side, in the room. Rafe and Henri each patted one of my shoulders, and Megan squeezed my arm again. I looked through the plexiglass window at the bodies moving with frantic control, the rustle of yellow paper gowns mixing with the rise and fall of comments and orders, and the soft, squelching sounds of Sandburg trying to heal himself. Light danced off goggles and faded into the dull white of surgical gloves, disappearing like a black hole swallowed it. I laughed bitterly; in a way, hospitals reminded me of black holes. Things went in and sometimes never came back out. 

'I'm stronger than that.' I had to have faith he was. This wasn't a black hole; Sandburg would come back out of it. 

Movement toward the door had us all skittering backward like so many mice. I looked closely as they wheeled the gurney by and reached out to touch Sandburg's hand briefly. It was the only part of him I could see clearly; the rest of him had disappeared under surgical and medical paraphernalia. 

It was a team of--a bunch of people. Five? Six? I was having trouble telling who was going where; some might be just heading for the bank of elevators; surely they weren't all going with Sandburg? I purposely looked away from the blood spatters all over the floor in the now empty room, resting my gaze instead on one man taking his goggles off, hanging just behind the rest. "Excuse me, Doctor?" 

He looked tired. Like he'd been working for a while. I could relate. "I'm Doctor Barnes. May I help you?" 

"That man...can you--is he going to be okay?" 

He looked at me, then at Rafe, Megan and Henri clustered around me. "Are you a family member?" 

"He's my partner." I hesitated. "And my roommate." 

"I can't tell you much if you're not a relative, Mister--" 

"Ellison. Detective Jim Ellison, Cascade PD." 

"Detective Ellison, then. There isn't much I'll be able to tell you, because of patient confidentiality. You're aware of his injury?" I nodded shortly, urging him silently to just get on with it. "They're taking him up to surgery right now; he's bleeding badly, internally." He paused, then looked me up and down. "He's going to need blood transfusions; if you want to help, you might go down and make a donation." He looked at the three surrounding me. "All of you. We can always use donors." 

"Please." I said it low, turned toward him, away from the other three. It probably wasn't anything they didn't already suspect--or, in Megan's case, know outright--but no sense advertising anything. "He's--my partner." 

"You said that already, Detective." His eyes were the strangest shade of green I'd ever seen, and I blinked once before meeting his gaze again. I saw sympathy in there, as well as a hint of sadness. Or was I projecting? "I'm sorry, but rules are rules. Family or legally appointed guardian only. When Mr. Sandburg is awake, if he wants you to know, he can tell you." 

"If, you mean." It felt as though ice were spreading through my chest, freezing me up. B.S.--Before Sandburg, I'd had a lot of ice in my body. I'd gotten used to not feeling that way, over the years. 

"It's possible the surgeon will have some news for you, later. If you'd like to wait, he's in OR number four, on the fifth floor. You're welcome to wait in the lounge there." 

"Thanks." It took a lot to squeeze that word out; I was so cold inside. Doctor Barnes nodded and turned, walked down the hallway without looking back. I wanted to rail and shout, but where would it get me? What would it get me? Thrown out, most likely. Megan touched my shoulder. 

"I'll go call Simon." 

I nodded. "Thanks." I glanced at Rafe and Henri, standing back silently, watching me, wondering. "Let's go wait. The worst they can do is not tell us anything, and at least, if--" I couldn't say the words. I _wouldn't_ say the words. If I said them, they might come true. If Sandburg could have faith he was strong enough, so could I. 

Henri slapped me lightly on the shoulder. "C'mon, Ellison. You and I'll get settled, and we'll let Rafe go get us all some coffee." 

I tried a smile. "Hospital sludge can be addictive, under the right circumstances." 

"Just like the Bullpen." Rafe grinned, though I could see the worry behind it, could see it in the shadows under his eyes. 

"Exactly." 

We parted in three different directions, and I couldn't help thinking about black holes again. I was being sucked in deeper and deeper. Would Sandburg and I get out of this one? 

* * *

Megan had one drop of blood escaping from her cottonball and sticky tape bandage, and it wrapped around her elbow in a thin, dull scarlet ribbon. I looked up when she walked into the lounge, her eyes bright with expectation. 

"Anything?" 

I shook my head and settled it back against the wall again. We'd been in here so long, I was almost comfortable now, doing this. If I concentrated hard enough, I could almost imagine it was my pillow at home. 

"How long does a surgery like this take?" She wandered in and sat down next to me, dropping her purse into the chair between us. Henri looked up from his sprawl. 

"Raoul's surgery took almost seven hours." 

I blinked at him, then sighed. "Shit, I'd forgotten about that." Raoul Mendoza, member of one of the Vice teams, had gotten shot up during a bust five months ago. He was finally back on active, unrestricted duty, but Henri was right. He'd been hours under the knife. "Well kids, we have five to go, if that ends up being the case." God. I'd be insane in another five hours. It was nearly midnight, now. I looked at Megan. "Did you call Simon?" 

"He's donating, right now. I ran into him on my way down. He brought you some clothes." She glanced at my Santa pants, and I sighed. Looking at them reminded me of all the joking Sandburg and I'd done earlier. Which reminded me of why he'd been shot. Which reminded me of-- 

Fuck it. "I'm gonna go get some more coffee. Anyone want any?" 

Three headshakes. Fine. I stood up and headed out the door, not sure exactly where I was going, but needing some air. Some space. 

I walked the length of the hallway, and around two turns, until I came to a door that led to a small patio. The marvels of medicine and hospitals. A patio, on the fifth floor. 

It was cold outside, but aside from noticing my skin breaking out into gooseflesh, I ignored it. I was already frozen inside; what was a little more cold? The stars were shining brightly, even through the smog that filled up the city sky. Or maybe it was just that I saw them more clearly than most naked eyes could. I'd never been a huge fan of astronomy, but being able to see them so much more clearly had changed my mind a little over the years. Sandburg and I would sometimes lie on our backs and count them, when we went camping. 

"I'll kill you, if you die on me." 

My voice was startlingly loud in the silence around me, and I realized I'd spoken aloud--and what a stupid thing to say, too. Dead was dead; if it happened, I sure wasn't going to be able to kill him all over again. 

"Don't let him die." I wasn't sure who I was talking to. I didn't always believe in God; hell, most of the time I didn't believe. Or wasn't sure I believed. Sandburg wasn't so sure there wasn't a God, but he wasn't sure there was, either. We'd talked ourselves in circles, trying to decide yea or nay, and never really came to any conclusions. I thought about the wolf and the panther, our animal spirits, and wondered if the wolf could keep him alive. God, a wolf, faith, Sandburg's own strength and will. Whichever, I wasn't feeling particular at the moment. 

Don't let him die. Let him live, let him be strong. Let me have awhile longer with him. 

Don't let him die. 

"I thought I'd find you out here." 

I smelled cigar smoke before I heard his words. Cigars, and the heavy shuffle-step-step that made up Simon's gait. 

"Hospitals make my head ache." I stared up at the stars again, wondering how many others had stood and been able to see so clearly, without visual devices. How many had partners to help them control their sight? How many had lost their partners? 

"Hospitals make everyone's heads ache." Simon paused, then took the final steps to stand beside me at the rail. "Any word yet?" 

"Not when I left the lounge fifteen minutes ago. Henri reminded me about Mendoza's surgery; it was hours." 

"I brought you some clothes--got the stuff out of your locker." 

"Thanks." I looked over; Simon was profiled, looking out toward the city. "I wonder if they'll let me have his personal effects?" 

"Was he carrying?" 

"Yeah." 

"They'll let me." He drew a cigar from his shirt pocket, then looked sideways at me before putting it back. "I'm down for emergency contact." 

"You are?" I was surprised; Sandburg hadn't ever said anything to me. 

"Naomi's too hard to get a hold of in an emergency, so Sandburg listed me as "closest relative", or whatever the hell that category's called." 

"Did they call you?" 

"Connor saved them the trouble." The cotton was gleaming white against his skin; it made a contrast that made my head ache more. 

"Will they talk to you?" 

His answer was a growl. "They better." 

"Fine. As long as they'll talk to _someone_." I understood patient confidentiality and all that crap, but dammit, he was my partner. Not just my working partner, but all the way. I deserved to know. I needed to know. 

Don't let him die. He's strong enough. He has to be. 

"Come on, Jim. You can go in and change, and we'll wait for the surgeon to come out and talk to us." 

"Yes, Sir." I wanted to stay out here, surrounded by the cold and the stars, rather than go back inside that stinking box, but I owed it to Sandburg to be as close as I could. To give him the strength of my faith and belief in him. 

* * *

The clock hands were coated in honey. I checked my watch and found it was suffering from the same fate. Nearly four a.m. He'd been in surgery almost six hours. 

Henri was asleep across five chairs on the far side of the room. Rafe was sprawled beside him, dozing fitfully. Megan was pretending interest in some magazine she'd unearthed on a corner table. Simon and I took turns pacing the length of the room. Twice a nurse, or aide, had come in to see if we wanted coffee, or a pillow or blanket; twice we'd all refused. The coffee I'd had earlier was sitting in my stomach like a small puddle of radioactive sludge; every time I shifted, it rocked inside me, making my gut ache and clench. 

Or maybe that was just from the tension. 

Footsteps shuffled along the floor outside, and I sat up straighter in my chair; they were heading this way. There wasn't as much traffic now as earlier; I supposed even hospitals had quiet periods--and we were approaching what Sandburg sometimes called the witching hour, that time just before dawn. 

Cloth against tile. Surgery shoes. Simon turned expectantly when the door opened with a soft air-in-motion noise. 

It was a woman. Small, or I guess petite, since she was short and slender. Her hair was a rich chestnut color, pulled up and fixed securely to the top of her head. She was wearing dark green scrubs, her mask down around her neck, creating an odd sort of neckerchief. Her eyes swept around the room, looking at each one of us before settling on me. "I'm Doctor Corpening. I'm looking for Blair Sandburg's family." 

I took a step forward. "I'm his partner, Doctor." Simon looked at me; I could see it from the corner of my eye. 

"I need to speak with his family members." 

"You're looking at them, Doctor." I relaxed my jaw only through sheer effort, ignoring the soft sound of enamel grating against enamel. Of all the times and reasons to be outed, however minor the outing was. "I'm his--domestic partner. Jim Ellison." 

"I see." She looked at me for a long, long moment, silence drawing out, creating more tension in the room. Nobody else moved, nor said a word, waiting to see what would play out between us. She looked at Simon then. "And you are--?" 

"Captain Simon Banks, Sandburg's superior. I'm also listed as his emergency contact." 

"Very well, gentlemen." Her eyes lingered on the other three, then she gestured for Simon and I to follow her into the smaller side room. We exchanged looks, then followed. She waited until we were both seated, though I'd have preferred to stand, then drew a deep breath. "Mr. Sandburg is a very lucky man. The bullet missed actually hitting his heart by a fraction of an inch." I let out the breath I'd been holding, some of the tension leaving my body. Dr. Corpening held a hand up. "Don't relax too much, Mr. Ellison. The bullet did plenty of damage inside. We repaired holes in the periocardial sac, as well as his left lung. He had bone fragments and chips in the entire cardiopulmonary area--whether they were from the bullet, or his ribs cracking during CPR compressions, we're not certain. Either one. There were other minor tears, as well as the bullet itself, lodged in soft tissue. We removed it, and repaired that wound as well." 

"CPR?" I blinked, not sure what she meant. "We didn't do CPR on him." 

"The medics had to resuscitate en route to the hospital, Mr. Ellison. We had to resuscitate while he was on the table." 

And I'd watched one defib. Shit. Three times dead. She was right--he was damn lucky. How many times can you cheat death while in its grasp, before it gets tired of being teased? I swallowed roughly. "How is he now?" 

"Right now he's in critical condition. Although his heart itself wasn't injured, there was serious damage to the areas right around it--the sac surrounding it. There's some pulmonary damage. He was hemorrhaging inside. He's not breathing on his own at the moment. If he makes it the next twenty-four hours without further complications, and we can get him off the ventilator, I'll downgrade to serious and stable." 

I closed my eyes briefly. Don't let him die. Please. 

I felt Simon's hand on my shoulder. "Jim?" 

"I'm fine, Simon." I cleared my throat, opened my eyes and looked at the doctor. "Can I see him?" 

She nodded, her face a little more relaxed than a few minutes ago. "He's being moved to SICU--surgical intensive care. Give us another ten minutes or so and then you can go in and see him." 

I stood up, the ice loosening inside my chest. "Thank you, Doctor." 

She smiled at me this time. "You need to give him a lot of the credit, Mr. Ellison. He's a strong man. Strong-willed." The smile faded a little, and her gaze became more serious. "He's not out of the woods yet. But I'm cautiously optimistic." 

I could have hugged her. I would have, except I didn't think it was really appropriate. Instead, I stuck my hand out to shake hers, trying to keep my body from shivering. Relief was snaking through me, making me hot and cold. I heard what she said, and I knew it was much too soon to celebrate...but at least he was alive. Alive, he could keep fighting. "Thank you again, Doctor." 

She smiled again, and nodded. "He'll be in room nine-twelve. I'll leave word at the nurse's desk you're to be allowed in." I nodded, unable for the moment to think of anything to say. My brain was shutting down. I watched her leave the lounge, getting lost in the soft shuffle noise of scrubs on tile, until Simon stood and shook my shoulder lightly. 

"Jim. I'll let the others know. You go and see how he's doing." 

I nodded and headed toward the door. Behind me, I could hear Simon's deep voice telling Megan, Rafe and Henri what the doctor told us. 

* * *

It was unnaturally quiet on this floor. I could hear soft voices, softer footsteps, and the quiet rhythmic sounds of machinery working, but that was it. There was also a different sort of smell to this floor. Not death, exactly, but even without knowing where I was specifically, I'd have guessed I was somewhere death hovered close by. There was a hushed feeling to everything here--including the lives. 

Eight hours since Sandburg'd been wheeled in here. He was still surrounded by tubes and wires, lines and electrodes. It was hard to find _Blair_ in there. They'd shaved his chest; I could hardly wait to listen to him gripe about that. 

Actually, that was the truth. I couldn't wait. I wanted to _hear_ him so bad, it was like live coals eating away at me from the inside. Anticipation and need were burning me. 

The nurses and doctors were being very patient, very understanding, about me being in here. Technically, they didn't have to let me in. I wasn't a blood relative, and I wasn't a spouse. Not one recognized legally, at any rate. They also didn't have to let me in here indefinitely, which so far they were doing. I'd dragged the only other chair from the room over to his bedside, and added a pillow to the seat for padding, and that was where I was now, holding onto one cool, pale hand, waiting for him to wake up. Waiting for him to smile, to leer at me, to make some sort of raunchy joke, or rattle off stats about...anything. 

Just waiting. Hoping. 

Don't let him die. 

The first sight of him scared me. He was bandaged from just above his nipples nearly to his waist, with red seeping out here and there to stain the white. A ventilator tube was taped to his mouth, and the tape and the bandages weren't much brighter white than his skin. I'd never seen him so pale, not even when he'd been hospitalized in the past. Dark purple shadows colored the skin beneath his eyes, making them look like they were sunken in. Maybe they were. His chest rose and fell slowly, but only with the hissing assistance of the ventilator. He had two different IV lines, and one for a transfusion, as well. He'd lost a lot, the doctor said during one visit. I patted the cotton bandage still on my arm, ready to give again if needed. Figures Sandburg and I would be the same blood type. Joined in all things. 

That was eight hours ago. Now I could see the bruising spreading upward from under the bandages, mute, colorful testimony to the different attempts to restart his heart, to keep him going. His body sounded...different, now, too. Not quite as strained, I suppose. His heart faltered in its rhythm a couple of times, then kicked back in, beating steadily, if not as strongly as usual. 

I shifted and settled my forehead against the cool metal railing of his bed. "You have to get better, you know. If you don't, I'll end up having to take care of that stupid fern you brought home...and you know green things don't survive around me for very long." I paused, yawned, then settled again. "Another thing, Sandburg. You have cheesecake in the fridge. I don't eat cheesecake. And it's too expensive just to throw away. I suppose I could give it to Connor, but then I'd have to listen to her bitch about all those calories, and how they go straight to her hips." 

One of Sandburg's favorite things to tease Megan about, was her obsession with the size of her hips--which both he and I agreed were very nice hips. But she obsessed, so he teased her. I wanted to hear that teasing again. 

Faith. I knew he would wake up. It was just a matter of when, now. Not if. It had to be. 

The door opened, and Megan stuck her head in. I gave Sandburg's hand a squeeze, then got up and walked into the hallway. 

"Rafe's going to take Henri and I home for a little while, so we can change and shower, whatever. You want us to bring you anything back?" 

I dug around in my pocket for my keys, then flipped them to her. "I have a travel toiletry bag under the bathroom sink. If you could bring that, and maybe grab me a sweater out of my closet. Its cold as hell in here." I shivered as I said it, knowing it had to be cool, but afraid I'd freeze to death before Blair woke up. 

"Not a problem." Megan patted my arm and smiled. "One of us will be back in a few hours, and Simon will probably be back before then. He had to take some things over to Darryl's, for their Christmas Eve dinner." 

God, I'd forgotten entirely about that. "It is Christmas Eve, isn't it?" How time flies when you're having fun. I scrubbed one hand over my face and gave her a ragged smile. "Come back when you're able. I know you and Henri both have plans for tonight. And Rafe's on duty, isn't he? And shit, Sandburg and I were, too." 

"Don't worry about it, Jim. Simon's already rotated the duty roster, and you know none of us mind filling in. We know how important Sandy is to you, and he's our friend, too." 

"Thanks." I was saying that a lot lately. Of course, the last few times were more sincere than the first couple. 

"See you after a bit, mate." Megan winked at me, and I grinned. I loved the Aussie accent, when she let it peek through. I waited until she'd turned the corner before going back into Sandburg's room. 

"Thee and me, Sandburg," I whispered as I settled back onto my chair. "I have faith in you, buddy. Now give me a reward for that, and do something. Smile, move, frown, wiggle your damned pinkie. Whatever. Anything. C'mon." My eyes ached, I was straining them so hard. Straining to see. Any sort of movement, anything. I sighed. "I guess the premise of faith is that you do it without reward, just knowing it's going to happen." I reached out and combed gently through tangled, lank hair. They'd removed his ankh (and how long did it take me to remember what it was called?) necklace before x-rays, surgery, anything. It was odd to see him without it, the one piece of jewelry I'd never seen him without. 

"It was a good party, before all the shit started, wasn't it? I even had fun, for a while." I waited, almost expecting him to jibe me about it. "Yeah, I know I was a grouchy son-of-a-bitch when you first volunteered me, but I did have a good time. Hopefully what happened tonight...last night...won't scar those kids too much." I heard his snort in my mind, and squeezed his hand a little harder, pulling the sound close, wrapping it around me. "Christmas, Chanukah, it's not really what we celebrate. None of it means much to me anyway--except I like the tree, and the lights. It's having you to share it with. Or doing nothing together." I shifted so I could lay my head on the one flat, unoccupied spot of mattress, right beside his hand. "Even doing nothing. The important thing is doing it together." 

God, I was tired. The last time I'd slept was...thirty-six hours ago, or something like that. Twenty-four? It didn't matter, it was a long time ago. I closed my eyes. At least I was right here. If...anything happened. 

* * *

Voices and that unique sound of paper tape ripping woke me. I blinked about a dozen times before I could make my eyes focus, then looked at my watch. Two hours. I'd slept about two hours. 

People--nurses--were moving around Sandburg's bed, moving things out of the way, settling others in place. IV bags were changed, and the tubing was removed from his mouth and throat. Someone settled a mask over his mouth, but if he noticed, you couldn't tell it by me. He still looked unconscious, terribly pale, completely out of it. 

"We're taking him off the ventilator, Jim." Doctor Corpening smiled at me. "He'll still be on oxygen, but he seems to be doing well enough to give it a try." 

Nice to see she was calling me by my first name; it was a good sign. "Does this mean he'll wake up pretty soon?" 

"Not for a while, most likely. He lost a lot of blood, and was injured very badly. His body is working for all it's worth to heal him, but it takes time. And he's on some heavy-duty medication right now, both for pain, and to help prevent infection." 

"So you're keeping him drugged asleep?" I sighed and shifted around, trying to find a comfortable place on my squashed pillow. 

"Partially. We'll start easing off some of it, so he can start to wake up naturally, but again, it's hard to say when it'll actually happen. Why don't you go down and get something to eat? I can almost guarantee nothing will happen in the next half an hour, and you look like you could use some air." 

What I could use most was Sandburg waking up...but I guess I'd get that whenever it was meant to happen and not a minute before. I sighed and nodded, glanced at my watch again. "It's almost three?" 

She nodded. "I go off duty in a couple of hours, and I'm technically off tomorrow, though I'll be on-call if anything too drastic happens. Doctor Stephens will be making rounds later; I'll be sure to leave word to let you remain in here." 

I stood up and pushed the chair back. "Thanks again, Doctor." 

"I understand your position, Jim." Her eyes held mine, unwavering. "If I might make a suggestion...you and Mr. Sandburg should consider having powers of attorney drawn up--in the event something of this magnitude happens again." 

She wasn't saying much, but I'd gotten pretty good at reading between the lines, over my years with the police force. I nodded. "I will. We will. Thank you." 

"You're welcome. Have a good evening, Jim--and happy holidays." 

"You, too." 

My stomach chose that moment to rumble, and I grimaced. Hospital cafeteria food. I'd rather face an armed gang. Still, food was food, when it came right down to it. I pushed my chair out of the way and headed out the door, glancing back one last time at Sandburg before letting the door swing closed. 

* * *

"Haven't we done this enough, already?" I glanced over at Simon, leaning against the wall. It was nearly midnight, and even though he'd left for a while to spend the evening with his son, he was back. Moral support, I guess. 

"I keep waiting to not have to do it any more," he said softly. "If it's not Darryl, its one of you. I'm getting too old for this, Ellison." 

"Ditto, Sir." I shifted around, certain my ass was as flat as the pillow now. "Sure you don't want to sit?" 

"And squirm all over the place like you? No thanks." He smiled, teeth gleaming whitely in the darkness of his face, in the dimness of the room. "I'm leaving in a few minutes anyway. I'm taking a watch tomorrow, need to get my beauty rest before then." 

I stared at him for a minute. "You put yourself on the roster?" I didn't know what to say. "Simon--" 

"Can it, Jim. And don't think it's a permanent favor. Far as I'm concerned, you can pull doubles, once Sandburg's back on his feet." 

I almost smiled, but caught it in time. Simon would hate to know we could see through the gruffness so easily. I nodded. "Yes, Sir. And thanks." 

He waved his hand. "Don't mention it." He eased forward then, stood at the foot of Sandburg's bed. They'd replaced the mask earlier with the small, clear tube that fitted into his nostrils. It left more of his face visible, let me see him better. I kept waiting for his eyes to open, for his voice. It was hard having faith, just on faith's sake. "You take care; one of us will be by in the morning to see how you're doing." He looked at me and smiled. "Merry Christmas, Jim." 

"Same to you, Simon. And thanks again." 

The door swooshed open and closed, and Sandburg and I were alone again. I reached for his hand and squeezed it. "All right, Chief. You said you were strong...that you couldn't be taken down. I believe you...I really do. But...can you give me some kind of sign here? Just...something. Anything. Twitch, for heaven's sake. It doesn't have to be jumping jacks." 

At least I wasn't expecting jumping jacks. The other...I was hopeful. I raised our hands and rubbed my forehead with the back of his. "A word, Blair. Please. Anything. Let me know you're alive in there. I see you breathing...but...." 

Silence, then from somewhere outside the hospital, I heard bells. I doubted anyone else heard them here, inside the hospital, but then, I heard a lot of things most people didn't. Church bells, ringing in Christmas Day. I smiled and kissed Sandburg's fingers before lowering our hands back to the bed. 

"At least you're alive, even if we're not doing the kissy-face thing. Alive is what counts." I squeezed his hand once more, and nearly started out of my skin when he returned the squeeze. It wasn't much, but it was pressure. "Sandburg?" 

"Mmm." He coughed once, then sighed. "Ji--?" 

Oh. My. God. "Yeah, buddy." I squeezed again. Thank you. Whoever, whatever, thank you. "You did it again, Chief. Cheated death." 

"Tol...ja." He rolled his head and looked at me, eyes still kind of glassy, shadows still giving them a deep, sunken look. He'd never looked better to me, than in that moment. "'m tough...." 

"I know." I grinned like an idiot, then leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Tough bastard. And I'm glad." 

"Got...to. Keep you...in..." He paused, panted once, then smiled, his lips curving slightly. "...line." 

I leaned in close. "You scared me to death, Chief. All I could think of--" 

"No." He coughed again, grimacing when it probably pulled his stitches, or jiggled his ribs. "No." 

"I never finished the thoughts. You had faith in you; I could have faith in you." 

"Good." It was a hoarse whisper, and his eyes were closing again. I smiled and squeezed his hand. 

"I love you, Chief." 

"Mmm. Love...you." 

The circles under his eyes looked darker, but it was probably my imagination. He woke up once; he would wake up again. God, it was going to be a great day. I wanted to jump, shout, do high-fives down the hall. Instead I leaned in and kissed him again, lightly, then laid my head on the mattress beside our hands. "Merry Christmas, Blair." 

I didn't get a reply. I didn't expect one. What I did get was a renewal on my faith. A reason to keep going, to keep believing. It was what gave Christmas--or Chanukah, or whatever we celebrated--meaning to me. Sandburg was alive; he'd be well, eventually. We'd be together. And that was enough for me. 

_Finis_


End file.
